I

The wind blows kind

the storm is announced

There the light reveals

some blade

A hand holding

a sword

it vibrates

and the air whispers

II

Two men wet

their katanas in the river

Cherry trees exploded

on the road:

April it was

Murasama and Musamune

watched flowers run

over the water

When flowers

crashed against

Murasama’s blade

they were softly cut

in halves

“That is my blade”, Murasama claimed

sadly

noticing that flowers don’t bleed

“Yours, Musamune, lets

flowers escape.

They touch its sharpness, and avoid it”

Musamume smiled

and in lotus

he watched the river flow

crystal clear

reflecting

the metal in his sword

reflected

in the water

“My sword does not cut

beautiful things” claimed Masamune

and took his katana

off the water

It was dry.

III

The sword comes with

the scale

the scale comes with

the matter

weighted

measured

cut

Where the useless grows,

evil grows,

for evil hides

within

decoration

Facing the sword

we measure

our usefulness

and when it rains inside

the rain calls us

and we forget

the word beauty

we do not think

and we are the rain

crashing against the stones

and against the lake

and the earth where

insects and frogs come out from

and we leave our home

to look for the home

of the world

and we are the home

we are the sword